


O sea-starved, hungry sea

by dayinthelife



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2012-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayinthelife/pseuds/dayinthelife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for jadeandlilac for the 4th round of the GOT-Exchange. Prompt: 5+1, “It had never been any good with anyone but Jaime.” Five people Cersei tried it with, and Jaime, the only one who made her feel something.</p><p>The sun gleams golden on the day that Jaime is to leave for Crakehall, but she does not believe anything could ever shine brighter than her brother, especially on this morning; the sun’s reflection on the sea is almost blinding, but he is alight with so much energy that she can almost see it coursing through his veins: a lion made of blood and radiance, eager and apprehensive and dauntless all at once. He is beautiful and golden and perfect, and best of all he is hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O sea-starved, hungry sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jadeandlilac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadeandlilac/gifts).



The sun gleams golden on the day that Jaime is to leave for Crakehall, but she does not believe anything could ever shine brighter than her brother, especially on this morning; the sun’s reflection on the sea is almost blinding, but he is alight with so much energy that she can almost see it coursing through his veins: a lion made of blood and radiance, eager and apprehensive and dauntless all at once. He is beautiful and golden and perfect and best of all he is hers. 

When he strokes her wrist and kisses her she sighs contentedly, heedful of the way their mouths fit together; there is neither collision of teeth nor knocking of noses, only the warm, slick feel of his lips on hers and the lingering taste of oranges on his breath. Jaime puts one hand in her hair, like their father used to do with their mother, and she rests her hands on his boyish hips. 

Her soul must have been cleaved in two before her birth, she decides, and the gods had housed the pieces in separate bodies so that they might be united once more in life. When she is with Jaime is the only time she ever feels _truly_ whole, utterly complete and without lacking. She feels the pull of it deep within her chest when she breaks their kiss, knowing that this will be the last time she will see her twin for what might as well be an eternity, and she begins to steel herself for his departure.

(When they had first learned of Jaime’s squiring at Crakehall, Jaime had been outraged, but Cersei had only stood staring, feeling her insides turn to ice even as Jaime shouted his refusal. Her septa had told her that young men from esteemed houses often squired with other lords around that age, but she had never once thought that Jaime would be one of them. How could he be, when their mother was dead and their father never smiled, when Tyrion was an insufferable terror and she could not even comprehend a life without her twin by her side? But their father had not yielded.)

She nobly holds back tears as they bid Jaime farewell. She will not permit herself to cry in the company of her father and younger sibling; Jaime is the only one she permits to see such womanly vulnerability. Their embrace is restrained (they both remember the consequences of being caught and have been careful since) and she is feeling resentful, but it is on this day that Cersei knows for certain she could never love another in the way she loves Jaime: her twin, her mirror, the missing piece of her soul.

-

It has been two years since he left, and though the void inside of her still exists, some of the pain of it has ebbed, washed out by the waves of the Sunset Sea that bore Jaime away. She grabs a handful of grass beside her and twists it, relishing in the feeling of resistance right before the blades snap and yield beneath her fingers. She is to be queen someday, and she must be prepared to rend weeds from the earth, to weather storms of discontent and make them yield and love her, like so many flowers straining toward the sun.

She is lost in thought when Addam Marbrand places a crown of scarlet flowers atop her head. She looks up at him and smiles, grabbing his hand and pulling him down to sit with her. Although Jaime had left, her interest in kissing had continued to bloom, and at times Cersei found herself lying in the grass overlooking the sea, her golden hair mingling with the muddy brown or rusty auburn of some Lord’s son. But each time is the same, and Addam Marbrand is no different.

He puts a hand on top of hers and clumsily kisses her cheek, his breath hot and smelling of the wine he drank earlier today to impress her. She closes her eyes and puts a hand in his hair, turning her head for a proper kiss. As always, she imagines the lips she is kissing belong to Jaime, and he is home and with her and promising he will never leave again. And as always, the illusion crumbles away almost immediately, emerald eyes and golden hair and easy laughter she has conjured up fading back to reality as Addam tries to put his tongue in her mouth, pushing her back into the grass insistently. He does not understand her body as Jaime does, does not move in tandem with her but pushes against her, like waves buffeting a ship, crashing endlessly until the wood splinters and it relents, lost to the sea. But a lioness does not relent, and after a few moments of tolerating his cumbersome groping of her breasts she turns her head, pushing away from him and running toward the shore, laughing as the water splashes up her arms and legs and weighs down her gown. She feels the pull of the tide as it rushes past her toward the sea and then comes surging back again and wonders when these waters will bring her brother home.

-

When most highborn girls are young their fathers fill their heads with promises of large castles, suitable lands, and noble lords for husbands. But Cersei Lannister is not simply a highborn girl; she is the firstborn child of Joanna and Tywin Lannister, and she is promised a dragon. 

There is to be a tourney in honor of Rhaegar Targaryen’s nameday, with rumors of a betrothal on everyone’s lips, commoner and highborn alike. The royal family arrives in Lannisport midday, looking fearsome and godlike and precisely how kings and queens and princes should, molten silver hair and amethyst eyes glinting in the sunlight. Cersei does not notice the way the queen’s bejeweled hands grip her horse’s reins a bit too tightly, nor the way the king does not return Lord Tywin’s smile. Instead her attention is focused solely on Rhaegar, the dragon prince that will soon be hers. He is more beautiful than anyone – man or woman – she has ever seen; his features delicate and eyes kind, yet there is a quiet power that emanates from him as well, a solidity that pleases her. He will be a well-loved silver king, and she his fierce golden queen. She smiles coyly at him and curtsies and he nods his acknowledgement, rewarding her with a small smile before he turns his head to speak with the russet haired man to his right. Jaime is too preoccupied with getting Arthur Dayne’s attention to notice the exchange. 

She would like to think that it begins with innocent intentions, the week of the tourney: the brush of his hand on her waist accidental, her lingering glances mere coincidence; but that would be a lie, and so she swallows her guilt like hot coals and it burns her throat and sits heavily in her stomach but she is glad for the reminder, even as he has her pressed against the cold stone and is unlacing her corset, that she belongs to another (although she wants to love this dragon, she does).

Rhaegar’s hands are surprisingly skilled and he has her naked in moments, those unusual purple eyes regarding her body solemnly and sending a shiver down her spine. She hesitates for a moment, and then touches his cheek, letting her fingers splay across his cool skin. She brings her lips to his and kisses him hungrily, bringing his hands to her breasts and leading them to the bed. He is a dragon, and she will reignite his fire with her own.

When they are shrouded in silk and nestled amongst the pillows, even when he is inside her, he seems distracted, dispassionate. He is a fine lover; he knows where to touch to make her sigh and when to quicken his thrusts and how to kiss her body just so, but the melancholy never leaves his eyes, even when she brings him to climax. He is like ice, she thinks after, lying with her head on his shoulder as he absentmindedly caresses her golden mane. She takes a few strands of his hair and wraps them around her fingers, marveling at the way the silver gleams in the torchlight, how it seems to reflect back all warmth cast upon it. She does not dream of silver dragons that night, but of her lion, golden and passionate and hot to the touch, and feels the flame of guilt inside of her flare up, threatening to swallow her whole.

-

Although her betrothal to the dragon prince did not go the way she had dreamed, her father has taken her with him to live in King’s Landing, and the consolation brings her closer to her twin (as well as a crown, a tiny part of her thinks whenever she smiles languidly at Elia Martell, the wilting desert rose being choked more every day by the filthy, deceitful air of the city). They see each other more often now than they have since childhood, but the novelty of looking upon her brother’s face never fades, and every time their eyes meet she feels a dull heat pool low in her abdomen.

It has been a fortnight since their last rendezvous, and she cannot say that the thought of it doesn’t make her wet. She gets a thrill whenever she dresses in her commoner’s garb, the way the plain roughspun gown rubs against her body making her yearn for his touch even more. Their meeting place is a dingy inn outside the city gates, and she must hide her golden hair beneath a hood in order to go unrecognized. She pictures the salacious glint in Jaime’s eyes every time he pulls the hood down, how his smile turns almost feral as he grabs a fistful of hair in his hands before cupping her face and kissing her fiercely. She closes her eyes, calling to mind the feeling of his hands in her hair, and reaches a hand downward. 

She rubs herself in slow small circles, pretending that it is Jaime who touches her now, and moans. She is not ashamed that her own cry arouses her further, and her motions quicken as she dips one finger, then two, inside of herself, her hands and thighs now slick, her cunt hot with want. 

Pleasuring her with his mouth is one of Jaime’s favorite things to do, and she wishes it were his tongue inside of her now instead of her own fingers. She sees him in her mind, between her legs, hair disheveled and mouth shiny with her desire, and it almost drives her mad. 

She bucks against her hand, murmuring his name and stroking inside of herself faster and faster. As she starts to feel a familiar pressure building inside, she cries out again, his name still tumbling from her lips, and she does not care if the entire castle hears; he is the only thing that matters, _Jaime, Jaime, Jaime._ She clenches as she feels release, sighing shakily and bringing her hand to rest on her stomach. After a moment the euphoric feeling fades. Her pleasure has evaporated and left her feeling hollow in a way that only he can fill. 

-

The world is a strange, unpredictable place, where summers last for decades and stags devour dragons. In order to prove his loyalty to this new Baratheon king, Lord Tywin has promised Cersei as his bride. And so she waits for him in the sept, golden and blood red and gloriously beautiful in her wedding gown, the perfect picture of a future queen. She fingers the hem of her maiden’s cloak and smiles to herself, wondering what her people would think if they knew their king’s bride had been fucking her brother since her first flowering, had in fact fucked him a few hours before this ceremony.

Robert Baratheon is handsome, with hair the color of pitch and eyes bluer than the waters of Shipbreaker Bay. He is taller than Jaime, and moves with purpose, the pure physical force of his being an almost palpable shadow that follows his every step. She would like to love him, she thinks, as he walks to the center of the sept to meet her. He grins as he removes her crimson cloak and drops his own – an inky black stag on a bright yellow field – about her shoulders. The weight of it is heavy, and although she feels Jaime’s eyes on her and would like to somehow reassure him that this changes nothing, she cannot bring herself to look at him and so be pierced by shards of emerald. 

The feast is long and the hall is hot and cramped, and she is glad when the bedding begins. She feels a green girl as the men strip her to her smallclothes, trying to make her blush with bawdy comments and mussing her hair with wine-heavy hands. She is almost giddy as they carry her off to her wedding chambers, dropping her onto a downy featherbed littered with rose petals and lavender. Robert comes soon after, his arms draped about the shoulders of the women ushering him into the room; one hand, she notices, casually grazes against a handmaiden’s breast. He lingers for just a moment in the doorway, whispering something into the hair of one of the ladies, making her titter and cover her reddening face. Cersei almost scowls, but after her husband is made known of her presence he shoos the women away, shutting the heavy oaken door and turning to her with a hungry look in his eyes. 

He climbs on top of her, biting at her collarbone insistently while unlacing his breeches with a practiced hand, and she puts her arms about his neck and moans as he turns his attention lower, mouthing at her nipples through the thin silk of her remaining garments. He is as passionate as if he were in battle, pouring all of himself into the fervor of his lovemaking. She makes a keening noise as he teases her entrance before he fills her, raking her nails across his back as he thrusts. As he nears his peak he moves faster, his damp hair hanging in her face, and the scent of wine on his breath is almost overpowering. It is not her name upon his lips when he spills inside her, but that of a dead girl, and she feels her heart freeze solid as if she were the one trapped in the crypts beneath Winterfell. She would have liked to love him, she thinks, feeling the blood in her veins turn glacial as his seed cools between her thighs.

-

Not a moment passes that she does not think of Jaime. When she wakes she does not dare to open her eyes until she is certain that she can feel the flicker of his life within her, for surely she would know at once if that flame guttered out, if a part of her soul had been destroyed. When she eats she reaches for another heel of bread, another cup of wine to compensate for the gruel that the Stark boy and his pack of wolves must be feeding him. In the evenings prayers stream from her lips in an endless cascade: may the Father protect him and the Crone guide him back to her, may the Warrior give him strength and the Maiden comfort his heart. She never prays to the Stranger, however. She is too proud, too afraid to admit that he may ever greet death; she isn’t sure what would happen to her should she ever find herself living in a world where he no longer breathes. 

She looks for bits of Jaime in others, splintered shreds of solace to keep her afloat in the chaotic sea of helplessness and fury that has become her life. Lancel comes to her willingly, and she is unsure if this pleases her or makes her despise him. Yet he comes, almost every night, and she does not turn him away. He is always silent but for the nervous thud of his heart as she snakes her arms around his waist, clinging to him in a desperate way that she might once have found obscene. She leans against him and listens to it beat, willing her own to keep time, and when at last their pulses synchronize she can almost believe he is Jaime, even if the illusion lasts but a moment. 

He fucks her slowly and methodically, grasping her hips lightly and never breaking from his rhythm. His eyes glimmer in the torchlight, green like wildfire, like Jaime’s; but his hair is a dull, dirty blond, not the sun but the sand at the bottom of the sea and she feels like shaking him, screaming at him to be more forceful, more tender, more than he can ever be. 

As they lay together after, tears begin to slide unbidden down her cheeks and he looks at her in horror, unsure whether he should move to comfort her or relieve her of his presence immediately. After a moment he pulls on his breeches and presses a ridiculously chaste kiss to her lips, stroking her hair before gliding silently out of her chambers. She sits at the foot of her bed, motionless and naked, with only her thoughts and her mirror to keep her company. She risks a glance at her reflection and regrets it almost immediately, the sight of his green eyes red rimmed and miserable staring back at her almost unbearable. She cries herself to sleep for the first time since their mother died.

-

War changes men, she’s been told. It shakes them, jostles them at the core, and when they return they’re not quite the same. But Jaime isn’t just a man, he is her and she is him, and so when he returns with an ugly woman instead of a hand she is more shocked than angered. The anger comes later, after the beast has gone and his hand has healed yet still he avoids seeing her. 

His avoidance has been like a knife at her throat and she has decided to grab it by the handle, whether to toss to the ground or spill her life’s blood she isn’t sure yet. She corners him in the White Sword Tower that morning, eyes blazing, and pushes him into his chambers. He is stronger than her, to be sure, but she has taken him by surprise and he goes in without a fight. She shuts the door behind her and turns to face him, ready to unleash the fury of a lioness scorned, prepared to sink her claws into that wretched white cloak of his. 

Instead she finds herself speaking in a low voice, accusations and insults coating her throat like honey, and soon she can barely speak at all for fear of releasing the hot tears she hadn’t known were building up behind her eyes. He accepts her words without so much as a denial, and she wonders whether she should feel grateful or hurt. When she is done, she finds herself breathing heavily, her chest heaving with emotion.

He looks at her guiltily for a split second before he closes the distance between them and takes her in his arms. She flinches away and glares at him, but her anger has boiled away and left nothing but the bitter taste of misery. He has been gone for so long, and she has feared for him for so long, has felt like a child and a widow and a ghost all at once. He puts his face in her hair and breathes deep and she shudders, ashamed of how easily she has forgiven him already. 

He is awkward one-handed, and it pains her to look upon his stump, but he refuses to let her undress herself, and after a few excruciating attempts he lets out a hiss of frustration and rips her gown from her body, taking her by the wrist and practically dragging her into his bed.

He is beautiful as he fucks her, his hair like spun gold tickling her forehead, nose, and cheeks. Her name is like a prayer, and he whispers it continuously, caressing her face and kissing her lips and breasts and stomach, all the while maintaining his litany, _Cersei, Cersei, Cersei._ The movement of his lips on her thighs is tantalizing and she sighs as he licks her there, her hands threaded through his hair and pressing him further into her. He makes her come again and again with his mouth, green eyes always looking upward towards her face, to see her in her throes of passion.

He is gentle with her at first, moving his hips slowly and relishing in their union, but the feeling quickly overtakes him, and he is rocking into her faster and harder, gripping her hips and sucking at her neck greedily. He will leave his mark, but she does not care, she wants to be marked, wants to have a reminder of him with her always.

They thrust their hips up to meet one another, their bodies moving in perfect rhythm, and she cannot remember ever feeling so full, so complete. She is finally whole again, her soul mended and singular once more.


End file.
